Summary:
It was not the first time Lestrade had come across his young friend in this state—bruised, bloody, and shivering on a doorstep somewhere in northern London as he came off his latest fix—and it likely will not be the last.
Or, in which Lestrade drops a rather miserable Sherlock off with his unamused brother. Set sometime in the late 90's.
Night Shift
"Dammit!" Lestrade swore loudly as he banged his palm against the steering wheel and stepped on the brakes. He always took the back roads home through London after a shift just to give everything a final once over. Rarely did he ever find anything out of the ordinary, but he could recognise those curls anywhere.
Lestrade put his head in his hands and sighed deeply. This was definitely not how he'd wished the night would end.
Muttering a quiet 'fuck it' to himself, he quickly put the car in reverse. Considering Sherlock's condition the last time Lestrade found him, it would be unethical to just leave him sat there.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade called out from his now rolled-down window.
The young man was sitting on a stone staircase at the entrance of a small, dirty alleyway. His body was slumped against the building, which seemed to be the only thing holding him upright at the moment.
No response or movement came from Sherlock, and if not for some pretty horrific cases Lestrade had witnessed throughout his career as a police officer, he would have sworn the man was already dead.
After releasing his seatbelt, he fished out a fresh pair of latex gloves from the glove compartment. Then, steeling himself with a deep breath, he stepped out of the car to fetch the small medical kit from the boot before crossing the road. If this was to be even remotely like their last encounter, he'd have to be prepared for anything.
"You alright?" Lestrade tried as he approached the lax figure, careful not to startle the man. It was a cold January night, not the kind of weather for sitting outside. With his light tweed blazer hanging from his shoulders, Sherlock was not at all dressed for the situation either.
"Hey," Lestrade tried again, nudging the man's shoulder this time. "Why do we always meet like this?"
"Piss off..." came the mumbled reply, followed by a weak attempt to push Lestrade's hand away. "Not holding anything."
"It's me, you git. Lestrade." He bent down in front of Sherlock to get a better view, and his attention was immediately drawn to a nasty-looking black eye and the clear smell of alcohol.
The level of concern for his young friend rose as Lestrade assessed the situation, narrowing his eyes and pressing his lips into a thin line. Blood trickled down from a wound on Sherlock's temple. "Oi, look at me," he commanded, tapping Sherlock's cheek a few times. "How'd the other bloke make out?"
Sherlock lifted his head slowly, not leaving the support of the wall. "What's the deal with your outfit?" he muttered, avoiding Lestrade's question.
Lestrade glanced down at himself with a smirk. His official police uniform didn't look as sharp as it had when he left the house that morning. Sherlock wouldn't be the first to bleed on him that day.
"Arsenal and Chelsea are playing tomorrow. High risk game." He dug out the gloves from his pocket. "I'm supposed to come straight from home."
"Interesting."
Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by the chin and carefully moved his messy hair away from his forehead to get a closer look at the still-bleeding gash. It didn't look too bad, but his pupils were uneven and his gaze unfocused. Perhaps it was the contrast of the dark bruises, but his skin seemed even paler than usual and it didn't look like he'd seen a proper bed or meal for days. His jacket and trousers were dirty and ruffled, and the t-shirt underneath had burn holes. Lestrade didn't have to guess as to how they'd gotten there.
"How long since you last used?" the officer asked evenly, shifting his attention towards Sherlock's arms.
"Why?" Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning forward a bit.
"Because I'm still deciding where to drop you off." Lestrade peeled the blazer off of Sherlock's left shoulder. Given the state of it, he was glad that he was wearing gloves.
"Don't bother." Sherlock shifted in his seat, attempting to shake off Lestrade's touch, but he lost that battle pretty quickly. "No more good veins. Used my foot."
"Oh. Marvelous," the older man muttered under his breath.
Whatever altercation Sherlock had been involved in, it seemed the other party had had the upper hand; Lestrade could now see that the bruising continued down Sherlock's neck and collarbone.
Sherlock shivered slightly at the rush of cold air as Lestrade removed the blazer completely. His arms hadn't made it through the fight unpunished either, and the bruising was starting to match the now fading track marks. Lestrade breathed out a sigh and carefully ran his fingers over some of the worst looking contusions.
"What happened to your wrist?"
"What wrist?" Sherlock questioned weakly.
Lestrade carefully moved Sherlock's hand into his line of sight. It was swollen and the colour was an ugly mix of blue and yellow.
"Ah, that wrist," Sherlock slurred, proceeding to close one eye to keep his focus on his hand. "How the hell should I know?"
"Well the wrist is attached to the arm, and the arm is attached to…?"
Sherlock drew his eyebrows together. "The shoulder?"
"You, you idiot," Lestrade said irritably. "You feel this?" He poked Sherlock's shoulder with his index finger. "You need to take better care of this, you hear?"
No real answer came from the young man in question, other than looking miserable and a bit annoyed.
Lestrade pressed two fingers to the side of Sherlock's neck, ignoring the man's weak attempts to swat them away. "Your pulse is racing, but I don't think you OD'ed." He flipped his hand around and pressed the back of it to Sherlock's cheek, frowning at the warmth. "Pretty sure you have a fever though."
"Lucky me. Now leave." Sherlock tried once more to pull away, but his body didn't seem to cooperate. The only thing keeping him from falling on his face was the man in front of him.
"Well that's too bad. I'm involved now."
Sherlock giggled dryly. "Perfect. But the fact of the matter is, I don't actually need your help. Goodbye." In one quick movement he stumbled to his feet and attempted to push past the older man.
Still knelt on the ground, Lestrade watched resignedly at the pathetic scene of Sherlock trying to make his way down the street.
"Jesus Christ, this is painful to watch," Lestrade muttered as he got up to follow him.
Sherlock stood with his back against the dilapidated building not even ten feet away from where he had started. He was shivering even more now—whether from the cold or the drugs running through his system, Lestrade couldn't really tell.
"You always have such impeccable timing," Sherlock panted. He was scratching at his arms to the point where Lestrade could see red marks on the skin.
In a brisk tone, Lestrade informed, "I'm going to check your pockets now to make sure you aren't carrying anything—"
"Illegal?"
"—stupid." Lestrade tried to keep eye contact, but Sherlock's gaze was swimming.
With that word of warning, the officer then proceeded to frisk Sherlock down. From his trouser pockets, he pulled out a piece of metal wire, a handful of coins, and an old train ticket, along with a tiny bag of white powder and a few unidentified pills.
"Hey!" Sherlock protested, his uncoordinated arms fruitlessly trying to snatch the contents back.
"Hey yourself," Lestrade responded dryly. He kept a loose hand on Sherlock's chest to keep him back. "You're lucky I'm not on duty, or this would have cost you a night in a jail cell."
"I won it."
"How exactly does one win two grams of heroin?"
"By being very lucky."
"I'm not so sure I'd call it luck," Lestrade muttered. He put the small bag and few pills into his own pocket to dispose of later before moving on to the blazer. It didn't contain much, other than keys to god-knows-where and a wallet containing mostly old newspaper clippings and a shabby-looking ID card. "Now come along."
He hauled Sherlock up by the shoulders and started guiding him towards the car waiting on the other side of the narrow street. Sherlock promptly tripped over the curb and would have face-planted if not for the man holding him up.
"You need to help me here," Lestrade grumbled.
Sherlock hummed to himself. "Wouldn't be the first time, would it? Did you ever get anywhere with the Johnson case?"
"I was talking about the walking, genius," Lestrade huffed as he pushed Sherlock forward.
Aside from Sherlock's constant shifting in his seat, the car ride went fairly smoothly. Or at least Lestrade thought so until he heard gagging from the passenger seat next to him.
Swearing under his breath, he parked the car right in the middle of the road and put on the police lights. "Oh no you don't!" he protested, quickly pulling out an evidence bag from his chest pocket and thrusting it into Sherlock's lap. No way in hell did he intend on cleaning vomit from the squad car's interior in the middle of the night. "Use that."
Sherlock opened the bag with unsteady hands and held it under his chin, but all he brought up was a bit of bile followed by several rounds of dry heaving that made Lestrade wince in sympathy. It was true Sherlock had gotten himself into this mess, but he still couldn't help feeling sorry for his friend.
Lestrade placed a supporting hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and for the first time that day, the man didn't attempt to shake him off.
"You're alright," Lestrade assured as Sherlock caught his breath. He looked about ready to drop dead as he sat there, hunched over the plastic evidence bag. Lestrade handed him a few paper napkins, which he accepted with a nod.
"Ready to go again?"
Sherlock sighed. "If we must."
They proceeded to make their way through the London streets, but this time Lestrade was more careful when turning corners.
"He doesn't want to see me," Sherlock whispered after a few moments, his head pressed against the car window.
"He's your brother."
"Which would be the exact reason as to why he doesn't want to see me."
"You know that's not true."
"Tell that to the lamp he threw at me the last time."
Lestrade had a hard time picturing Mycroft throwing lamps, but if there was anyone able to make him angry enough to do so, it would be his brother.
"Maybe it's time to make some changes," Lestrade said and turned another corner. He knew it wasn't the right moment nor the right place to begin this conversation with Sherlock; he wasn't even sure the man would remember who drove him home, genius or not.
The rest of the journey was held in silence.
The car rolled to a stop in front of Mycroft's townhouse. It always felt strange dropping off Sherlock in this kind of neighbourhood. But even a disapproving brother had to be better than prison or a deserted house in the middle of winter. Though Sherlock would never admit it.
"I'm sure you'll want to file this." Sherlock extended his arm lazily to the side, hitting Lestrade in the chest with the evidence bag.
"Charming." Lestrade hesitated before taking the bag, being careful not to spill its contents.
They both got out of the car—one a bit more gracefully than the other—and started making their way towards the front of the house. Sherlock was dragging his feet across the pavement, carefully planning out each step. Lestrade hovered close behind him, ready to catch him if he fell or push him in the right direction if he tried to make a run for it. Either one seemed an equally possible scenario.
Lestrade dropped the bag of vomit into the outside bin before ringing the doorbell. As he waited, he glanced at his watch uncertainly. It was long past midnight and most people would have went to bed hours ago, but lights were visible behind the closed curtains, relieving some of Lestrade's conscience.
The door swung open. Over the course of the next three seconds, Lestrade swore he saw Mycroft's face flash through every one of the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally settling on a resigned sort of acceptance. "Christ," he muttered under his breath, "what now?"
"I'm sorry," was the best Lestrade could come up with. It had been a very long day.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed his way past his brother into the house without saying a word.
Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it again and just shook his head in defeat. Stepping aside, he gestured for Lestrade to follow him inside, glaring at him the whole way.
"Where did you find him this time?" Mycroft sighed.
"Near Kentish Town. Sitting in an alley."
"I hope he didn't give you too much trouble." Wrinkling up his nose, Mycroft used his index finger and thumb to remove Sherlock's ruined blazer from Lestrade's grip. He quickly tossed it outside on the doorstep before closing the door behind them.
Before Lestrade could mention the bruises and fever he'd discovered earlier, Mycroft hurried off after his brother into the study connected to the hallway.
With a sigh, Lestrade followed after.
"I've told you a million times, Sherlock! Do not sit on the couch." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, already looking like he was about to give up.
"Oh please, Mycroft. Live a little," Sherlock huffed. He flopped down on Mycroft's precious brown Chesterfield sofa, which stood like a trophy in the middle of the office.
"Last time you touched it, I had to have it cleaned. Cost me a bloody fortune!"
"Tell me where I'm allowed to sit then," Sherlock snapped back.
"You already sat down, didn't you? So just stay there and don't touch anything else." Mycroft grabbed the throw pillow behind Sherlock's back a tossed it onto the matching armchair.
"Don't touch anything…" Sherlock mocked under his breath, mimicking Mycroft's angry expression as he poked the coffee table with his middle finger.
Lestrade groaned and leaned his head back, closing his eyes.
If this was how all conversations between the Holmes brothers went, he suddenly understood the lamp throwing.
Mycroft ran an exasperated hand down his face, instantly looking ten years older, and walked back to where the officer was still standing.
"I confiscated two grams of heroin from him earlier. He wouldn't tell me how long it had been since he used, but he threw up in the car getting here, so I think he's still coming down," Lestrade explained quietly. "You should probably have someone look at his wrist—I think it's sprained," he added.
"Thank you for bringing him here, Gregory." Even if he didn't look it, Lestrade knew Mycroft was grateful to know where his brother was.
"I'll drop off some old files tomorrow. Give him something to think about and see if we can make him stay a little longer this time."
Mycroft nodded. "He'd like that. Thanks. Again."
"I'll show myself out." Lestrade pointed towards the exit.
Stepping back outside into the cold, he took a deep breath, more ready to go home to bed than ever.
"What did I say about not touching anything?" he heard Mycroft yelp as he closed the door.
Lestrade smiled. They would be alright.
AN: i used to write fics for the sherlock fandom back in 2012-2013, but they were pretty shit bc i didn't really know any english, so here's take 2. i've had this idea in my head for a few years but i just recently grew a spine and it finally came to life!
thanks to my beta whumphoarder
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